A Hollywood Scandal
by SlverShdws
Summary: At the end of a case Sherlock Holmes contemplates how it was he was out-maneuvered when his opponent makes a surprise appearance. A re-imagining of "A Scandal in Bohemia" to fit with the modern series.


At two-thirty in the afternoon the pub was mostly empty, the only conversation coming from the sportscasters on the telly. A drunk was spread out at the end of the bar, his head and arms splayed across the dark wood. The man behind the counter alternated between wiping down glasses and prodding the drunk with one hand, all with the expression of one who is near the end of shift.

Sherlock Holmes sat on a stool at the opposite end of the bar, a glass of brandy in one thin hand. He held it as if he were watching the way the dim light from the overhead lamp reflected between the tawny colored liquid and the heavy panes of the glass. In reality he was deep inside his own head, running back over the events of the past two days, searching for the elusive clue that would point out just exactly what had gone wrong. If the barman's watch was correct, which it probably wasn't considering the cheapness of the model, he had been at it for nearly three hours now and was, for lack of a better word, stumped. Perhaps a better word would be baffled.

No . . . more like in utter disbelief.

It was not as if he had never been wrong before. No one could be perfect, certainly not when one is just learning to apply the deductive principles that he had now come to master. There were moments, few and far between, in his past where he had overlooked, underestimated, or assumed. He frowned slightly and on his long face it was a pained expression. Well, it was not that long ago that he had assumed John's sister to be a brother solely on the name _Harry_. That one still smarted.

But they had all been _his_ mistakes. Sometimes costly. Embarrassing, certainly whenever Mycroft managed to get hold of them. Still he could _comprehend_ them even as he lamented his poor judgment. But in this case, no matter how many times he reviewed his mental files, he failed to see his misstep. As far as he could tell, his rationale and his actions had been perfect. The only thing that he could conclude was that his opponent had simply . . . bested him.

And oh how _that _smarted. Sherlock Holmes. Bested by an actor. How cliché. Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it.

"Hey. Hey." From the corner of his eye he could see that the drunk had awoken and lifted his head to stare blearily in his direction. The quick glance yielded dark reddish brown hair falling messily over a strong forehead, a slightly crooked nose suggesting a previous bar row, a five o'clock shadow though it was not yet three and a wrinkled mismatched suit of black trousers and an ill-fitting brown jacket. As easily as the information flowed in he dismissed it and his attention was once more directed inward. He paused and the rim of the glass bumped his lip. Something tugged at his brain . . .

A subtle scent reached his nose over the harsh sweetness of the brandy. Familiar. Clean and light but with a designer tone that gave it a richness lacking in say, John's basic water and soap approach. He half turned in his chair and found that the drunk had drifted down the bar and was settling into the stool next to him.

"Are you going to drink that?" he asked with the smug smirk of an alcoholic. Holmes narrowed his eyes and, upon closer inspection, noted several things he had glossed over. Namely that the hair, while messy, was neatly trimmed, the brown eyes, while glossy, were not in the least bit reddened and the clothes, while wrinkled, were clearly _not_ his. Not to mention that up close the five o'clock shadow appeared more like dirt than stubble. As if reading his mind, the drunk pulled out a clean white handkerchief and rubbed it over his face. Underneath the smudge the skin was smooth and tanned.

"Ash," he supplied, tucking the handkerchief away. His voice, crisp and young, and without even a hint of the slur from moments before, had Holmes' mind spiraling backward precisely twelve hours to the university student / tourist just outside Baker Street. The hair had been hidden under an American baseball hat and the clothes distressingly collegiate but the scent was the same. That and the voice that had so innocently apologized, "Pardon me, Mister Holmes."

Holmes was already kicking himself for not realizing that both the fragrance and the voice had been too expensive for the typical college student when the drunk smiled again, charmingly this time, and the transition from stone dead inebriant to Isaac Adler was complete.

"How did you know who I was?" Holmes asked, his annoyance at himself sharpening his tone. His mind was already clicking through the events of the day before again as if hoping to solve the mystery before the answer was given to him. In the three hours of contemplation he had come to the half hearted conclusion that if anything had gone wrong, it must have been that Isaac himself had somehow seen through his disguise. But _how_ was the real question.

If Isaac was offended by the abrupt questioning, he did not show it. He motioned to the untouched brandy that Holmes had set upon the bar.

"May I? The bartender's cut me off." At the slight lift of Holmes' eyebrows Isaac picked up the glass and took a small sip, pressing his lips firmly together as he swallowed. The action drew attention to the slim line of his throat and the tailored cut of the shirt he wore beneath the tattered coat. "I thought about adding that bit to the letter but I was in a bit of a rush." His smile turned sheepish and it was easy to see why the world was so fascinated with the young actor. That is, if his recent performance was not enough evidence. Each expression that shifted across his visage served to highlight his remarkable features.

Holmes idly wondered if his friendship with the ever romanticizing John Watson wasn't coloring his thinking a bit. A week ago his mind would have simply said, this is a handsome man.

"And I'll admit that I was bothered by the idea of our last meeting occurring via public correspondence," Isaac added. He took a second swallow of the brandy while Holmes waited in impatient silence for the response to the riddle his mind was throwing itself through hoops to solve. _How, how, how._ How did an international thespian recognize a reclusive consulting detective? A third run down of the actor's appearance failed to yield any more reveals, nothing that would suggest the man before him had some connection to the subsuming world of crime that so often was his . . . workspace. The hand that held the glass easily between thumb and forefinger was large but not rough and coupled with the simple platinum band on his other hand—just as well maintained with short, neatly clipped nails—suggested middle class, _upper_ middle class. An American actor with a less well to do family would likely have scars or faded burns from the time honored tradition of waiting tables or some other manual labor. Much like a consulting detective might have on his from failed—and successful—experiments.

Holmes frowned when he caught himself looking down at his own hands, inspecting them for those very marks. Yes, there was the burn on the back of his right from his first experience with gun powder. And the score of cuts from the beaker that had shattered. He was trying to recall where the rather fresh looking cut over the first two knuckles of his left hand had come from when to his surprise, Isaac reached over and took it in his own, flipping it over as if he were a palmist about to do a reading.

"Guitar?" he asked, looking up after a moment.

Holmes felt his lips twitch at the absurd suggestion. "Violin, actually," he replied. His impatience returned. "Were you planning on answering my question?"

Isaac set the glass down on the bar. He kept a light grip on Sherlock's fingers, light enough to let the detective know he could pull them away at any moment. In general he did not care for contact with others—the spread of bacteria was alarmingly high these days. There was also an awkward suffocating feeling to touch that made him keen to avoid it.

And so it surprised him that he chose to leave his hand where it was.

"I think it's only fair that after all you've learned about me in, oh, the past three minutes that I should be able to know something about you. Wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock briefly considered the question. "No."

There was a moment of silence before Isaac chuckled and released his hold, but not before his index finger brushed gently over his bruised knuckles. Of their own accord Sherlock's fingers curled, drawn in by the curious heat that had erupted on his palms.

"I see. I am the puzzle and you, the puzzler. I think I understand now why I had to come here. Or, at least one of the reasons. I had a feeling that you would have an unquiet mind about our encounter and I feel compelled to put you at ease regarding it."

"You intend to give me the photograph then?"

Isaac shook his head. "No Mister Holmes. Though I meant what I said in the letter. I have no intention of betraying Henry to his new wife. I see no reason to erase or exploit a poignant time of my youth even if my partner in memory chooses to regret it." The words were said breezily enough but the hurt behind them was evident. Sherlock recalled the face of Lord Henry Pentington when the young gentleman had first explained the difficulty at hand. He felt a compulsion of his own that he could neither explain nor deny.

"On the contrary, I believe regret would be an inaccurate choice of words in regards to Lord Henry's feelings."

The shy smile flashed again. "Well, I have my own matters to think of as well."

"A new lover then?"

A slim eyebrow rose and the smile turned wicked at the corners. "Is that an offer Mister Holmes?"

"An offer of wh—" It occurred to Sherlock suddenly what had been obvious and apparent from the beginning of the case, what he had neatly pushed to the side due to its unimportance in resolving the matter that had been presented to him, namely the recovery of the photograph. The possibility that he might have made a misstep due to such a basic, subconscious—no matter how ruthlessly squashed—_urge_ irritated him. The realization that he could not say for sure that it _had not_ been an influence made him pale. He opened his mouth and for the first time in his memory there was not a response at his lips.

A roll of laughter escaped Isaac and Sherlock felt a flush at the back of his neck. "Oh, I must apologize for baiting you Mister Holmes. But I am a vain creature and I must admit that your singular drive, directed at something other than myself was . . . grating. And now allow me to answer your question."

Sherlock became aware that he was hunching his shoulders as if he were a turtle trying to pull its head into its shell and made a conscious effort to straighten. "I would be most grateful," he replied stiffly, hoping that the poorly lit room hid the blush on his cheeks. Mortifying. When was the last time he had _blushed_? He couldn't recall the last time he had been blindsided by his own introspective.

"It may comfort you to know that I did not know who you were. As a matter of fact," he continued as Sherlock blinked in surprise, "I had absolutely no idea that you were anything other than what you said you were. If it weren't for a small bit of stupidity on Henry's part and a good deal of luck on mine, no doubt you would be sitting here toasting your success."

"I don't generally . . ."

"Drink?"

"Toast."

"Ah, well perhaps you should start. Perhaps you recall that I went to the window during our conversation? There in the street, looking nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, was Henry. He was never very good at acting inconspicuous."

"He was supposed to stay in the car," Sherlock muttered, frowning.

"I thought the maybe he was waiting to see me, to plead again for the photograph. But when you left and he did not come straight to the door I suspected that it was _you_ he had been waiting for. I lit out for the street and saw you just as you disappeared into a car. Luck had a cabbie stopping just near me and I offered him twenty pounds if he could keep you in sight. How he managed I don't know but when you exited at your flat I was just down the street. Then it was just a matter of finding out who you were."

He smiled again, in a knowing manner that had a flustered sensation erupting in Sherlock's chest.

"I don't know if you're aware, but you've got something of a fan base just outside your place. I'd not gone five steps before someone patted me on the shoulder and said 'Did you hear about Sherlock Holmes' last case?' When he had explained it to me, at great length in a manner I'm certain must be garbled, he pointed out the building you had entered and proclaimed it your home. Of course, there was nothing to say that _you _were Sherlock Holmes and so I waited outside for you to appear again. Then it was just a matter of a bump and an apology, which you responded to. As soon as I knew that Henry had hired a famous detective it become obvious what you were there for. This stranger held you in high regards and I assure you that there are others, a quick peek around the net proved that. So I returned to my room, gathered my things and left the note, assuming you had already figured out where I had hidden the photo. You did, didn't you," Isaac stated.

Sherlock tented his hands in front of him and nodded. "I did."

"How?"

"You've given me my answer, so I'm happy to give you yours. Simple really. If you had been a woman it might have proved more challenging. I may have had to involve fire or something a bit desperate."

"And why is that?"

"Because when questioned, a woman will press a secret closer and closer to her chest. But when that secret is threatened, it's the first thing she'll go for. But a man tends to keep his secrets in the front of his mind where they're readily accessible. You'll recall that I mentioned the hotel on Paddington Avenue?"

"Indeed. In fact I had thought you had said Pentington at first."

"Yes I know. I said Paddington but you heard Pentington and therefore thought of Henry Pentington. When you did so, you looked to the picture frame on your desk even though you had recovered enough to realize you had misheard. The picture in the frame was a generic one, the kind that might have come with the frame. No reason for you to look to it. I assumed then that you had hidden the photograph behind it."

Grinning broadly, Isaac gave a few short claps. "Bravo. How fascinating that such a small tick would give me away. And how impressive that you were able to notice it."

Sherlock gave a careless shrug of his shoulders though he felt a prick of pleasure at the compliment. Since he'd first experienced it with John's blunt amazement at his deductions he found he rather enjoyed the praise. It certainly was a welcome improvement to the usual response. Though it baffled him how people could ignore the minute details that screamed important information out all the time. If people would just _look_ at the world instead of skipping blindly through it, then they wouldn't have to come to him so often to solve their petty problems. Though that would mean a great deal more boredom for him.

Of course, it wouldn't do to grow too accustomed to it. After all, how often was a person wrong simply because he assumed he was always right?

"It was merely a matter of knowing what to look for."

"Oh come now, you're much too modest Mister Holmes."

"Not generally."

Isaac laughed and Sherlock felt an odd sense of delight at the sound, similar to the one he had felt moments before. It slunk away quickly though and was replaced with something rather like disappointment when Isaac rose to his feet. He finished the last swallow of brandy and pushed the glass along the bar towards the bartender.

"As much as I enjoy speaking with you Mister Holmes, I've done what I came here to do and unfortunately have a plane to catch. It was a delight to meet you."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. "And you."

"It's a shame though."

"What is?"

"I did rather like that frame."

After a second of hesitation, Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. Wordlessly he held out a simple bronze frame. Isaac's face grew puzzled as he looked down at the autographed glossy of himself. His eyebrows lifted even as he shifted his gaze up.

"Perhaps regret is the right word to use after all?"

"I requested it from Lord Pentington." The words came out faster than Holmes would have liked and he had to repress a wince. When Isaac tilted his head in silent question he jerked a shoulder restlessly. "It's not often, well really never, that I am out-maneuvered."

The truth was he wasn't at all sure of why he had asked for the photograph. On some level he understood it partly had to do with the words that had fallen from Lord Pentingon's mouth moments after Holmes had read the letter aloud. _What a man-oh, what a man! Did I not tell you how quick and resolute he was? Would he not have made an admirable partner? Is it not a pity that he was not on my level?_ He had been surprised by the level of distaste that had surged through him, direct solely at his client. His own response had come before he could even think to bite it back. Not that he would have, though Mycroft was often berating him for his loose handling of the nobility. _From what I have seen of the gentleman he seems indeed to be on a very different level to your Lordship._ Of course, like most with more money than brain cells, the quip had gone completely by the young man.

A light of consideration gleamed in the young actor's eyes and Sherlock resisted the urge to shift in his seat. John had often, snarkily enough, insisted that he was a mind reader, a preposterous notion of course, but he could not deny that he was very interested in _what_ it was that Isaac Adler was considering.

Whatever it was, he seemed content to keep it to himself for he merely tapped a finger on the frame and said, "It's in good hands then." With that he stepped past Sherlock in the direction of the exit.

Holmes frowned slightly and his eyes dropped to the picture in his hand. It was a smiling Isaac that stared back at him in black and white, the messy dark hair carefully slicked back and away so that the sharp angles of his face were more evident. After a moment, he tucked the frame back into his jacket. A vague sense of unfinished business drew over him and he couldn't help but turn to look over his left shoulder.

Isaac had paused in the doorway of the pub, one hand resting against the solid oak door. When their eyes met the actor gave a nearly unperceivable nod and then struck back to the bar. Sherlock spun the stool so that they were facing when Isaac came to a stop directly in front of him. In a nervous or habitual movement, Isaac brushed his fingers over his mused hair before tucking his hands into the front pockets of his trousers.

"Do you mind if I . . ." he trailed off lightly, a further suggestion of nerves. Holmes' mind ran quickly through possible conclusions to the sentence—_stay, sit, ask you something, speak freely, borrow a pen_—before concluding that they were vast.

So he folded his hands in his lap and asked, "Mind if you what?"

Isaac's response was not one that he had expected. Or even considered.

Sherlock Holmes had very little experience with sex, mostly due to the fact that he found the entire idea boring. Not to mention needlessly time consuming. Flirting, dating, arguing, compromising, then the act itself, the after affects of the act, misconceptions, misleads, misunderstandings—the entire thing seemed designed to encompass the maximum amount of time and energy that an individual possessed. How on earth could anyone hope to get anything done when they were running around wondering what other people were doing and who they were doing it with? More than that, why would anyone with a shred of intelligence want to involve themselves with something that at best led to distraction and at worst to abject misery?

Still there had always breathed in him the soul of a scientist even if he lacked interest in the subject. A sloppy press of lips at age thirteen had informed him that, as he had once told John, girls were not really his area. A slightly less bumbling exchange at fifteen proved more attractive though it led, a few days later, to a black eye and bloodied nose. And near expulsion from boarding school.

Having had initial contact in both realms he dismissed further explorations as frivolous and his time could be much better spent elsewhere. Over the years he had found the occasional romantic interest directed at him to have been perplexing and annoying and generally ignored it, unless it proved advantageous to him to use.

But it was difficult to ignore that upon his final question Isaac Adler had stepped forward, bent slightly, and leaned in to press his lips against his in a motion that seemed entirely too fluid for such a difference in their postures. It was neither sloppy nor bumbling and Holmes' mind noted that the actor's lips were firm and still wet from the last bit of brandy. His vision shivered slightly but he suspected that had to do with maintaining eye contact at such a close distance for Isaac had not, as Sherlock knew was typically the case, closed his eyes. Instead he watched Holmes even as he kissed him and Sherlock conceded that perhaps, to some people, it might not be as boring as one thought.

Isaac drew back and the corners of his lips flittered as if he were holding back a grin.

"Yes, just as I suspected."

Sherlock felt his confusion leap onto his face. "I beg your pardon?"

But Isaac merely shook his head and released his smile. "I do hope we meet again Mister Holmes, under more mysterious conditions."

Frowning, Sherlock waited until the young actor reached the doorway once more. "It's Sherlock." He paused briefly and added, "Why more mysterious?"

Looking back, Isaac's grin widened. "Because I've a feeling, Sherlock, that the only way to stay in your mind is to be an unsolvable puzzle."

And with that, he was gone. Holmes stared at the door long after it had clicked shut. Then he pulled the photograph from his jacket again.

"No," he said quietly. "Not the only way."


End file.
